


the L word

by Laylah



Category: Kamen Rider W (Double)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 04:27:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7603342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts as a routine day on the job. It ends as anything but.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the L word

**Author's Note:**

  * For [phidari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phidari/gifts).



The day starts normal enough: making the rounds on a case in progress, tracking down leads, talking to shady characters who don't want to admit how much they know. Soukichi's an old hand at this. Even taking time out to tell Shoutarou what's what isn't slowing him down too much, not with a case like this where it's pretty clear from the start what's going on. (What's going on is that the dame doing "secretarial" work for an old corporate big-shot is getting more and more favors out of her, and the old lady's family wants enough evidence of misconduct to toss her out before any wills get rewritten.)

When he confronts her, though, she goes out the window trying to get away. That suggests there's a little more going on here than your average case.

He goes after her, of course. A good detective trusts his instincts and never lets his prey escape. She flees through the streets of Fuuto with Soukichi hot on her heels and Shoutarou doing his best to keep up. She's fast, and she runs like she's desperate, like there's some dark secret that Soukichi's _this close_ to getting out of her.

It's a pretty good chase, but eventually she slips up, turning down a blind alley that ends in a blank wall. Soukichi skids to a halt a few feet away. "Give it up," he says. He has the dame cornered. No way she's getting past him now.

But she laughs, high and mocking, and with a quick flick of her wrist there's a Gaia Memory in her hand. " **Lust** ," it says as she activates it, and she jams it into her skin, more like a crook pulling a knife than a junkie getting a fix.

Her Dopant form is a black-and-red nightmare of spines and claws, and she takes a swipe at him before he's even had time to transform into Skull. He dodges, pulling his driver out of his coat, but in the wake of the attack there's a spray of glittering dust right in his face, blinding him and making him choke. He wipes his face on his sleeve, trying not to breathe the stuff in, trying to recover in time for the next attack—

Except the Dopant isn't attacking, she's fleeing, knocking Shoutarou down in another shower of glitter-dust as she sprints away. The kid yelps as he crumples and Soukichi stumbles toward him, hoping those claws didn't do any damage. "Hey!" he says. "Shoutarou!"

The kid coughs and rolls onto his back, reaching up to scrub the glitter from his face. There's no blood, so that's something to be thankful for, but they're not out of the woods yet. Soukichi's skin feels hot and too-tight all over, like that dust was a drug and he definitely got dosed. And if it hit him, it's going to hit the kid harder; Soukichi has a lot more experience and a lot more body mass on his side.

"Come on," he says, reaching down and grabbing Shoutarou's arm to haul him to his feet. "Pull yourself together and let's get out of here."

"Y-yeah, I. Just a second." The kid tips his head back, panting, weaving on his feet like a drunk.

The sight of Shoutarou's exposed throat gives him an instant, aching hard-on, and that's when Soukichi knows this case just went straight to hell.

He manages to get them back to the office without doing anything inadvisable, even though Shoutarou is stumbling and clinging to him the whole way. Not like the kid's hero-worship crush was ever all that subtle but right now it's hellish, the way his breath hitches any time the pressure of Soukichi's hand on his arm changes, the way his pupils are blown and his face is flushed, the way that's a goddamn good look for him and it _shouldn't be_ , damnit.

And yet apparently all that was Shoutarou trying to hold it together, because as soon as the Agency door closes behind them he's stretching up to try for a kiss.

"Hey," Soukichi says, "don't—" and that's as far as he gets before Shoutarou's mouth connects with his, wet and hot and the kind of lush softness that would feel fucking amazing around his dick. This is a terrible idea and he needs to make it stop before it goes too far. (It's already gone too far.) He's tried not to encourage this the whole time Shoutarou's been working with him—no matter how pretty the kid is, it wouldn't be right. Isn't right. But Shoutarou's tongue is in his mouth and his hands are wrapped around Shoutarou's arms, not pushing him back but holding him in place.

The kid's moaning, too, these breathy sounds as he kisses Soukichi for all he's worth. He tastes weird and metallic and it takes way too long for Soukichi to realize that's probably the taste of the drug that Dopant hit them with—which means they're both still going to get more fucked up before this is over, and they're already more fucked up than he can handle.

When he tries to step back and get control of himself, instead what his body does is push Shoutarou up against the door and pin him there. Shoutarou's hips hitch up against him, grinding desperately. "Please," Shoutarou pants, "I want you so much."

"You don't," Soukichi says, even though he knows that's bullshit. "It's the drug." It's not _just_ the drug and he knows it no matter how much he's been trying to pretend not to.

And predictably Shoutarou is shaking his head. "It's not," he says. "It's you, it's everything about you, I l—"

Soukichi kisses him before he can say anything they'll both regret once they're sober. It feels good to give in, to do what the drug wants. It shouldn't feel good. It's getting harder to keep track of should and shouldn't. He's grinding his dick against Shoutarou's and the rhythm is hypnotic, instinctive, pounding hot in his blood. If he can't get a hold of himself he's going to wind up fucking the kid over his desk. Just thinking about it makes his head swim. 

His hands are up under Shoutarou's shirt already and he doesn't even remember doing that. The kid feels smooth and lean, tempting, and he's whimpering as he writhes under Soukichi's hands. This is nothing, barely foreplay, but the way Shoutarou squirms and whines it sounds like he's ready to go off in his shorts all the same. He's too young, too green. He's bucking into the hand Soukichi shoves down there and—yep, shooting off just like that, slicking Soukichi's hand with come.

"Sorry," he pants, "I'm sorry, I just couldn't h—oh my god," his eyes wide as he watches Soukichi lick his hand clean.

"You're fucked up, that's all," Soukichi says, more for his own benefit than anything else. If he thinks too hard about this being the kid's first time, he'll—no, he won't stop, will he? Not with the way things are going so far, his head swimming and his skin too hot and his body doing whatever it wants despite his mind knowing better.

He pulls back long enough to tug his tie loose and unbutton his collar, and then the goddamn drug magnetism pulls him back in, so he's kissing Shoutarou again with the bitter salt of come still on his tongue. The kid sucks it right off him, shaking, mouth hot and sloppy. If Soukichi doesn't get his dick in that soon it feels like the need will kill him. A Dopant can't really do that, can it? That has to be hyperbole.

He gets his belt undone and his trousers unzipped while he's still arguing with himself and then Shoutarou's hands are there, pulling his dick free of his boxers, and he groans as his hips rock into that touch. 

"This stuff is—bad news," he says, one more try at sanity. "Wrecking us both." He can't apologize, can't ask Shoutarou to forgive him for how wrong this case has gone when he's still enjoying every second of it. "Hang in there."

"'m fine," Shoutarou says. "It's _good_ , chief, so good." He's got both hands on Soukichi's dick and he strokes like—well, like a teenager with more hormones than he knows what to do with, like a kid who's desperate for it all the time. Thing is, right now that describes Soukichi too, and the rough needy handling has him closer to the edge than he'd like to admit.

He puts a hand on Shoutarou's shoulder and barely has to push before the kid's knees hit the floor. Five seconds later he's finding out just how good that lush wet mouth feels wrapped around his dick, and it takes every last scrap of his self-control to keep from fucking his way in balls-deep. He's holding on, he reminds himself. He's not letting this get any worse than it has to. He's not going to just fuck the kid's face no matter how much the need is hammering at him right now.

God, Shoutarou's trying to do it for him, taking him deeper in urgent, sloppy strokes, choking on it and barely pulling back. Soukichi's hips hitch despite himself. Shoutarou moans, pleading. He's jerking himself off as he tries to get Soukichi's dick down his throat, and that's the hottest goddamn thing Soukichi's ever seen.

One of Soukichi's hands is fisted in the kid's hair and his dick's deep enough that he can feel Shoutarou's throat clutch around him. His grip tightens and his hips rock, driving in hard. The kid moans, chokes, moans again. Soukichi loses the last shred of self-control he'd been holding onto and he does fuck Shoutarou's throat, rough and fast. Maybe after he comes he'll be able to pull it together a little. Maybe—

Climax _hurts_ , like he's getting wrenched over the edge too fast and hard, and the way Shoutarou struggles and coughs as he takes Soukichi's load just makes it feel better. Soukichi waits for the oversensitive ache to set in—god knows he deserves to hurt a little after what he's just done—but it doesn't happen. He's just still hard, his balls still heavy, his dick still ready for more.

He makes himself pull out of Shoutarou's mouth, hauling the kid to his feet before he can just go in for round two. Shoutarou's face is a wreck, all flushed cheeks and swollen lips and wet streaks of mess—spit and come and reflexive tears. His eyes are glazed over and he's panting, a hand still on his dick as Soukichi manhandles him. "Please," he says, "more."

"Should stop," Soukichi says, even as he's dragging Shoutarou over to the desk. "This is a terrible idea."

"Don't stop," Shoutarou pleads. He shoves his shorts down as Soukichi bends him over. "I want it, please."

Whether he wants it isn't the problem. Neither of them are listening to Soukichi's objections right now, though, not with the drug in their systems and Shoutarou's ass in the air like he's begging for it. Soukichi lines up, slick with Shoutarou's spit and aching with need. He pushes, and his dick sinks into the tight heat of Shoutarou's ass so easily he could probably tell himself this isn't the kid's first time.

Except Shoutarou's moaning, whimpering, gasping out, "Oh my god, you—that feels so— _chief_ —" and the helpless lost tone of his voice says clear as day _I've never done this before and I didn't know it would feel like this_. Soukichi's going to hell.

**

It takes hours before the dust entirely wears off. By that time Soukichi's muscles ache like he's run a marathon, and his dick feels so sore and abused he doesn't want to even think about anyone touching it. He's afraid to let himself think about how Shoutarou's ass must feel. They're both sticky, filthy disasters, slumped on the floor of the office too exhausted to crawl to the shower. Soukichi's suit is ruined. He doesn't know where his hat went.

Shoutarou rolls closer and cuddles up to him, head on his shoulder, like a dame he's just made love to instead of an impressionable kid he's just screwed in more ways than one.

"Hasn't quite worn off yet, huh," Soukichi says.

Shoutarou doesn't take the hint. "It has," he says. "I just want—"

"It hasn't," Soukichi interrupts. "Because we don't do this stuff. You're my subordinate and it's not right." He can feel Shoutarou cringing and knows he's being an asshole. But he has to be, doesn't he? He's not about to let the kid think they're boyfriends now, or something, just because a Dopant got the better of them. That's not right. "Once you sober up, this is over." That's as much of a concession as he can make and still be able to face his own damn reflection in the morning.

"Okay," Shoutarou says softly. It's clear from his tone that it's not. "When it... when it wears off, I'll stop." He's going to be miserable over this. It's going to wreck him.

But honestly—what else could Soukichi do?


End file.
